


Artist's Rendering

by Suzume



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Artistic Sensibilities, Community: kink_bingo, Crush, Drawing, Ishbal | Ishval, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzume/pseuds/Suzume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you're not shy about your handiwork, sometime I would be happy to see it."<br/>Armstrong and Kimblee draw together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artist's Rendering

The pencil looked dainty clamped between his powerful fingers, sweeping scritch scritch scritch across the page. The lines seemed arbitrary at first, but they gradually began to take shape, forming the contours of a face. One bit of graphite piled over another creating shading, definition, the illusion of depth. It was fascinating to watch: so precise, so swift. Kimblee felt he could've observed the process for hours. It was always rewarding to view a master at work.

When he needed to, Kimblee could draw a little. His skilled hands and accurate memory inevitably gave him the ability to render things out for reference purposes, but his drawings were always made in the service of some alchemic or investigative goal. He rarely sketched for fun. The marks he put on paper were not alive and breathing and beautiful the way Alex Louis Armstrong's were.  
"What are you doing, Alex?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Ah, hello, Kimblee." He did not yet grasp at the familiarity of using his colleague's first name, despite having granted Kimblee permission to use his when he'd been asked.

Kimblee came to sit beside him. There was tension evident in Armstrong's face. If he was trying to alleviate the stress bearing down on him by drawing it clearly wasn't working. Kimblee put his hand on Armstrong's shoulder and casually looked at the elegant image forming under his pencil tip- the round, gentle face of a young girl. "A relative of yours, perhaps?"

"You're observant as usual," Alex obligingly turned the sketch further his way. "This is Catherine, my baby sister."

"You have a lot of sisters, don't you?"

"Four in all."

There was, around the eyes, a slight resemblance between the siblings. "How terribly cute. She must be proud of you, coming out to the front lines to defend your country."

"She misses me. I'm not sure she really understands everything."

"Well," Kimblee spread wide his teeth in a relaxed sort of smile, "When you come home a hero she'll understand."

Armstrong managed a smile in return. It was kind of Kimblee to talk to him like this- try and reassure him. No matter what he tried, it seemed he was unable to either still or conceal his tense nerves. And if looked like a wreck, what feelings would that inspire in the enlisted men? Kimblee was always so careful, with him avoiding the tender topic of the war and its specific stresses. How was it, Armstrong wondered, that he bobbed along like a duck on water? That the horrors around them simply rolled off his back?

"May I see any of your other drawings?" Kimblee's fingers brushed along the edge of the page.  
"Certainly," Armstrong put the sketchbook into his hands, fingers drawing back after a slight touch to Kimblee's sun-warmed skin. He towered casually over the smaller man, watching his expression as he turned the pages, keeping an interested eye on each detail of the drawings contained within.

"You focus predominantly on portraits." Kimblee did not hide the amusement that he felt upon stumbling on a pitch-perfect representation of Roy Mustang. The sketches of the young and serious enlisted men were nice, but a truly handsome face, with such conflicted feelings twisting beneath the surface was a truer challenge to Armstrong's artistic skill. "You've done something quite lovely here with Mustang."

The way Kimblee said "lovely" made Armstrong squirm slightly. He hoped it wasn't mean in such an accusatory manner, but that they merely shared a similar appreciation for the aesthetics of the Flame Alchemist's form. Kimblee acted differently where Mustang was concerned. Armstrong found it a bit too bothersome to be intriguing.

Although portraits were his specialty, they weren't the only contents of the notebook. There were rough impressions, shaded with the side of the pencil, depicting doves by a fountain, bales of hay, and other peaceful landscapes. Armstrong had not set to paper any of the dry or decimated scenery of Ishval (not that Kimblee could really blame him- beauty could be found anywhere if one looked hard enough, but the land of Isvhal did not exactly go out of its way to make things easy for that seeker).

"Have you studied extensively?"

"The art of portraiture has been passed down in the Armstrong family for generations."

Kimblee tipped his head to look up directly into Armstrong's pale blue eyes. "Really? That's fascinating. Do you enjoy it? It may sound simplistic to say so, but I have a strong interest in art."

"Is that so? Do you draw yourself?" Armstrong warmed to the un-martial topic.

"A bit, idly, but my scribbles don't possess half the heart or grace of yours," Kimblee shrugged modestly and passed Armstrong back his sketchbook.

"If you're not shy about your handiwork, sometime I would be happy to see it."

"Perhaps together then sometime? If you're open to requests I might have to prevail upon you to sketch out something for me. Are you aware of the next time you should be free?"

It sounded such a pleasant invitation that Armstrong accepted, squeezing Kimblee's small, strong hand in a hearty shake. ...And perhaps by the time they arranged to actually meet (with the chaotic demands of war crowding their schedules it was hard to set anything in stone) he would have the courage to ask his pretty colleague, "Will you pose for me?"

 

They eventually convened for their art hour in Armstrong's tent. "Having Mustang around will be too distracting," Kimblee grinned, "For both of us, I imagine."

"Are you the type who prefers not to be watched while he draws?" Armstrong awkwardly attempted to dodge the tease- it had come a bit close for comfort.

"No, being observed doesn't ever disturb me."

"I suppose not... You enjoy making your alchemy something of a performance..."

"Are you trying to get at something, Alex?" Kimblee laid one tough, but in Armstrong's eye, tiny, hand on his arm. Armstrong was magnificently built, like a classical sculpture of some Xerxian god, a living work of art. Although Kimblee wanted to try his hand at drawing him, he doubted his hand could properly transfer his impressions to paper.

Armstrong, on the other hand, had no concern for his drawing ability, but for the willingness of his desired subject. Kimblee's gaze could be disconcertingly intense. Armstrong avoided those yellow eyes as he voiced his tentative reply. "I hoped that you might be convinced to pose for a portrait."

Kimblee's eyes lightened. He seemed mildly surprised; decently flattered. "Of course. ...You thought I would say "no?" I would be happy to." It was a relief. "I only hope you will be so good as to return the favor. I may not match up to you in skill, but it's not everyday one is presented with such a divinely chiseled muse."

Armstrong felt as if his skin were practically burning under Kimblee's hand. The slight sunburn he had acquired since his last interaction with the Crimson Lotus Alchemist served to partially disguise his blushing. "Y-yes, though you may not have in mind something exactly comparable to what I'm thinking."

"It's fine, I'm sure." Kimblee pulled back his hand and looked for a place to settle down and sketch. "Can I draw while you draw me or do you need me to take a special pose?"

"If you're drawing, you'll mainly be sitting still, so it shouldn't be a problem," once again Armstrong fretted nervously. "There is a little something though... About how I wanted to draw you..."

"Yes?"

"Nude," Armstrong mumbled out his one word answer.

Kimblee didn't laugh, although perhaps he wanted to. "I suppose you have some reservations now about returning the favor." But he didn't give his colleague long to grope for a response. "Don't worry. As prying as my eyes might seem, I won't ask you to expose any more skin than you're comfortable with. Your rippling chest is good enough for me." He pulled his tank top off over his head (his jacket had already been left behind, as usual). "I can use my imagination."

That portion of his body would not have been hard for Armstrong to summon up with his own powers of creativity- the white shirt fit closely enough that Kimblee's bold chest and tight stomach were easily imagined by anyone who'd had the opportunity to gaze upon him for long. He spent more time than was proper with his jacket removed while out in the field.

The same sort of muscles Armstrong cultivated were not necessarily what he sought in others, as beautiful as they might be. Any size of body treated well and trained toward perfection pleased his eye. Kimblee was as shameless as he should have expected (but Armstrong's gentlemanly nature would not allow him to make that assumption). He folded his clothes neatly, leaving his tough, taut body exposed for anyone who popped into the tent to see. He was lean and proportionate and lovely- Armstrong swallowed hard- but there was just one last thing, one last feature of Kimblee's that needed to be loosed to create the picture Armstrong yearned to capture.

"Wh-what is it?" there was the tiniest catch in Kimblee's voice as Armstrong's large hand reached down toward him, brushing past his face, against his neck, to take hold of the tie restraining his hair. The gentle precision employed by that powerful body impressed Kimblee again as Armstrong tugged the tie away, spilling his long black locks over his shoulders.

They looked into each other's eyes. Kimblee didn't think Armstrong was even breathing. His hand retreated, steady and slow, threading its way out of Kimblee's tantalizingly slick, clean hair, glancing to touch the corner of his firm and handsome jaw, before retreating, shy, to his side. He loosed the desert air from his lungs and breathed again. It wasn't proper to invite his friend her to model for him then ogle him like this.

"Do you like my hair, Alex?" Kimblee inquired, keeping his cool, treating the situation as if there was nothing strange about it.

"It's beautiful," he said candidly, "One of your most striking features. ...When I was a lad I had a head full of blond curls, but my hair was never anything like yours."

"Then I hope you can put it to paper in a way similarly pleasing to your eye. May I sit here?" Kimblee gestured to Armstrong's cot. Though it was a comparatively close fit for the man meant to sleep on it, for Kimblee it provided rather more space than his own.

"Please do," Armstrong urged him and picked up his pencil at last, sitting down on his footlocker, the top of his head grazing the underside of the tent. "It's awkward to draw while standing and I would've have you sit on the ground."

"I might be drawing, but I'm also modeling, however casually," Kimblee leaned on his left elbow, facing toward Armstrong as he laid on his side and began to put down a few lines. "Is this pose all right?"

"It's fine," Armstrong assured him. The burning sun outside would've been uncomfortable playing over Kimblee's bare body, but Armstrong couldn't help but wish for some of its golden rays to break through the canvas of his tent and play upon Kimblee's tousled hair. As he began to draw, he started to see a fantasy scene in his mind- sometimes the power of his pencil wasn't enough to soothe his troubled spirits, but when the situation was right there was nothing like the rhythmic act of creating with his hand, one tiny flick of graphite at a time, to let him dream.

The sun warming those black tresses while the wind kept them rustling gently around their master's neck and ears...Armstrong touching that thick, sleek mass, threading red and white daisies into that hair... Kimblee's sharp face softened by the flowing contrast... Why was it that Kimblee has to be, unfortunately, not so truly welcoming as he was attractive? (Unlike Roy, tortured, talented, heroic Roy Mustang, Armstrong had the feeling that with with Kimblee there was a distinct chance his emotions would not be entirely unreciprocated.)

A sudden quirk in the real Kimblee's watching grin brought him back to an awkward reality. Armstrong's face colored at his less than opportune physiological response to his daydream. He tried to think of things that would banish the thought from his mind. He had never expected to actively conjure the images of carnage in Ishval in his mind, but they were the furthest thing he could think of from beauty and flowers and sexual desire.

"Come here," Kimblee put aside his pencil and waggled his fingers, waving his companion over. "You've been so bothered lately- if you've found something that can conquer it, you shouldn't be so quick to set it aside."

"But Kimblee..." Armstrong resisted, certain that Kimblee did not realize the extent or focus of his desires.

"But nothing," Kimblee sat up, "Come here, Alex, and touch my hair and call me "Solf." We can find another time to draw."

 

"Solf, Solf," Armstrong moaned as he buried himself in Kimblee's tough but tiny body, fingers tangled in his hair. The desert receded from his suddenly untroubled consciousness. Was that the blush of love, a tremor of passion, when Kimblee turned his head before relenting to kiss him? All they were missing was flowers.


End file.
